


Heart of the Maelstrom

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Series: The Rising Storm [5]
Category: Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU of an AU, Chameleon Arch, Fobwatch, Gen, Harry is the Master, Hogwarts, Magic, Tags to be added as necessary, Time Lord!Harry, Time Lords, Wizards, master!harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the watch that Harry opened hadn't belonged to the Doctor, but to the Master?</p><p>(AU of 'Eye of the Storm', although no knowledge of that story is necessary)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harry Potter No More

**Author's Note:**

> So, Helena_Of_Jericho asked me if I could write a Master!Harry version of my series, and I was like, _no, no, I couldn't possibly_. Unfortunately, the reasons why I wasn't going to write this fic apparently don't matter, because now that the idea is in my head I feel compelled to anyway. So, here we go!

**Chapter One**

Ten year old Harry Potter was sorting through the things in the attic when he found it.

Dusty, grimy, and very tired after a long day of tidying and cleaning the attic by himself, Harry almost overlooked the object sitting on a stack of old books, except that a clumsy swipe of his broom sent the stack of books flying, and, with it, the old fob watch that was sitting on top.

Harry crouched down to look at the old watch curiously. He’d never seen a fob watch before, and he had no idea what it was; only that it was metal, and old, and with strange circular markings on the front. Turning it around in his hands, he eyed what seemed to be a button on the top.

For a moment the wary instincts drummed into him by the Dursleys told him not to touch, in case he did something he shouldn’t and got into trouble: but his natural curiosity won out, and Harry pressed the metal knob.

The watch cover sprang open, and golden light flooded out.

And Harry Potter, remarkable yet entirely human wizard that he would have been, ceased to exist.

In his place was someone who shouldn’t exist, created from nothing but stored data and the living descendant of the long-dead being whose data had been stored, a being of fire and fury, like the inferno at the heart of the sun, ancient and forever, who burned at the centre of time and could see the turn of the universe.

The Master.

* * *

Harry snapped to wakefulness without any period of confusion or disorientation in-between: one moment he was unconscious, the next wide awake and perfectly alert.

He pressed a hand unconsciously to where twinned hearts beat a doubt-beat inside his chest, eyes wide as he processed what had happened to him. He could feel the Earth turning beneath his feet, rotating around the sun, the warp and weft of the timelines around him, bright and beautiful. He took a deep breath, inhaling so many different scents along with it, his senses so march sharper and more discerning than a human’s.

Closing his eyes, Harry tried to sort out the confusion in his mind. He was no longer just Harry, an ordinary ten year old boy. He was the Master, ancient and malevolent, and last of the Time Lords but one. He was the Master, there was no doubt about that – even born anew in this childish body, his sense of self was undeniable – and yet… there was one difference between his newly-reborn self and the one that had come before.

The drums were gone.

The drums, the never-ending drum-beat, that maddening sound which egged him on to violence and ever-greater heights of insanity – it was gone. The Master’s mind was quiet and alone, empty of the madness that had haunted him for so long.

The Master took a deep breath, and got to his feet. It felt strange to be without the drums, after their endless beat had accompanied him for so long… but his mind felt clearer without them. Calmer. The Master took another deep breath, and marvelled at his clarity of thought. His thoughts came easily, without the turmoil and roiling maelstrom of emotion that he was used to.

It was disconcerting.

The Master shook his head, trying to resolve his lingering disorientation. A quiet, tiny voice in his mind still insisted that he was Harry Potter, that he was ten years old and had lived all his life on Earth and that no part of him was an alien, but that voice was easily drowned out by the immensity of the rest of his mind. The Master’s mind was old, and powerful, and no lingering remnant of a child who had ceased to exist was going to trouble him.

Still, the question was, how had the Master ended up in the form of an ten year old human boy?

He could remember using the Chameleon Arch to escape the Time War a second time – oh, those old fools on Gallifrey, they hadn’t even worked out how he’d escaped the _first_ time, let alone thought to stop him from doing so again – but he had become a human _adult_ , not a child. He had faint memories of his time in the watch, of being carried in someone’s pocket, of waiting for the right time to connect to his human self’s subconscious so that he could become himself again. But the time had never been right, and then…

His human self had _died_ , the Master realised with a shock. _Died._ He could hardly believe it. He’d left it too late, and his human self had died, and the watch had been left to gather dust, no one the wiser as to what was in it. David Evans had died without never knowing who he truly was.

 _Evans?_ said the tiny voice that the Master was resolutely ignoring. _But that’s Aunt Petunia’s maiden name._

Petunia, the Master thought. David Evans’ daughter. From there it was easy to put together. Petunia had inherited the watch, and put it aside in the attic – the Master felt a flare of anger at that – where little Harry Potter, David’s grandson and a direct biological descendant of the Master had opened it. Ordinarily, someone other than the Master opening the watch would have had no effect: but the true Master was dead, and in his absence Harry’s DNA was close enough to David’s for the repository device to accept Harry as the rightful recipient of everything it contained. Namely, Time Lord DNA and the Master’s consciousness.

So here the Master was, sitting in someone else’s repurposed body – for the double heartbeat in his chest told him that it was Harry’s body no longer – looking like a child, free of the drums that had plagued him for so long. It made sense, the Master thought, considering the issue with cool appraisal. The signal that the Time Lords had implanted in his mind had stayed with David: muted and barely perceptible to a human, but nonetheless _there_. David had died, and the drums had died with him: and now, the Master could start anew, as though the drums had never been.

He’d never admit it, but he was slightly intimidated at the thought. He could barely remember a time before the drums: his entire life had been defined by their beat and the madness that came with it. That madness had shaped him into the Time Lord he’d become; the question was, was he still the Master without it?

The Master’s musings were interrupted by a strident voice.

“ _Boy!_ ” Aunt Petunia shouted. “If you want any dinner, you had better have finished cleaning the attic!”

Ah yes, the Master thought dryly. His loving relatives. He’d almost forgotten.

He frowned, as another thought occurred to him. Harry had been mistreated all his life, but there was _intent_ behind the abuse he had suffered, the Master was sure of it. To what end his aunt and uncle had abused him for, he had no idea.

The Master vowed that he was going to find out.

The trapdoor that opened into the attic opened, and Aunt Petunia looked around the attic assessingly, without even glancing at the Master.

“Acceptable,” she finally sniffed, her tone indicating anything but. “Come downstairs and wash your hands. I don’t want you getting dust and dirt everywhere.” She disappeared back down the trapdoor, still without looking once in the Master’s direction.

So that was his daughter, the Master thought in disgust, and with a faint pang of disappointment. Even by human standards, she was unsatisfactory. He’d hoped that some small element of his natural brilliance had been passed on to his offspring, but apparently not: Petunia was not only entirely human, but a mediocre one at that.

Little thought he wanted to follow the foul woman’s instructions, the Master decided that for the moment, it would be prudent to pretend that nothing had changed. So, after climbing down the ladder that led to the attic, the Master headed straight for the bathroom to wash his face and hands. Petunia was right about one thing: after all the cleaning Harry had been doing, the Master had been left a bit of a mess.

After washing his hands and face at the bathroom sink, the Master dried them with a towel, and took a moment to study his reflection. Superficially, not much seemed to have changed: he was still a black-haired, green-eyed little boy (much as that now rankled). To a more observant eye, however, much had changed indeed.

Harry Potter’s unhealthy pallor had been replaced with ivory tones, and his scruffy mass of hair now looked more interestingly-windswept rather than as though it had never seen a comb. But the biggest changes were to his countenance. The Master was centuries old, and it showed in his face. His expression was dark and knowing, and his eyes glinted with the promise of violence and mayhem, the brilliant green irises ringed with a thin circle of gold that hadn’t been there before.

The Master smirked at his reflection, and went out to dinner.

As usual, his relatives had served him barely enough food to keep him alive. The Master ate in silence, eyeing the three humans at the table with him. There was Vernon, who was even less bright than Petunia, who adhered closely to his own narrow-minded view of ‘normalcy’ (read: banality); Petunia herself, who wasn’t much more intelligent, and possessed of a spiteful temper; and then there was their brat, Dudley, who combined his parents worst traits along with a few unique ones of his own.

His family, the Master thought glumly, and with vast contempt. How lovely. He’d never been fond of them, even as a human, but now… oh, how he loathed them! If they had shown him any kindness, any fondness during his time in their care… but they hadn’t, and they would be sorry for it soon enough.

“Aunt Petunia,” The Master piped up once he’d eaten (curse his childish voice!), “what, exactly, is the freakishness that you seem so determined to ‘beat out of me?’”

Immediately an appalled and angry silence fell. Dudley kept eating, glancing between his parents and the Master curiously, but Vernon and Petunia both froze.

“What have we told you about mentioning freakishness in this house, boy?” Vernon exploded, turning red with anger.

“Well, I just thought that if I knew what it was, maybe I could avoid it better,” the Master said, with his best pretence at earnestness.

Vernon raised his hand, as though to backhand the Master across the table, and that was enough. The Master’s expression instantly turned deadly.

“I really wouldn’t, Vernon,” he warned, his voice low and sinister, never taking his eyes from Vernon’s.

Vernon blinked, and turned redder still.

“You–!” he blustered, and swung.

A moment later he howled in pain as the Master ducked the blow, and darted forward to hit the nerve cluster in Vernon’s shoulder, temporarily paralysing his arm.

“Try that again,” the Master suggested, grinning. It wasn’t a pleasant grin. It was havoc and mayhem, and behind the grin the Master’s eyes glittered, hard and cold.

Petunia’s eyes widened, and the Master thought that perhaps she wasn’t so stupid, after all.

“What are you?” she asked shrilly, fear making her already high-pitched voice higher. The Master almost winced at the sound. Instead, he smiled lazily.

“You never thought to open your father’s watch, did you?” he asked rhetorically. “Never discovered that it was no ordinary watch, but a repository for something older and far greater than you can imagine.” The Master threw back his head and laughed. “For which I have to thank you, for I would far rather be reincarnated as itty-bitty little Harry Potter than _you_ , my dear.” He smiled again, eyes gleaming. “So I ask a second, Petunia, what was so _freakish_ about Harry Potter than you tried so very, very hard to stamp it out of the boy?”

Petunia had turned pale, understanding on some level that she was conversing with something far more dangerous than her unwanted nephew. Vernon, unfortunately, had yet to clue into the situation.

“Now listen here, boy!” he roared, getting to his feet. His face had turned purple, and his tiny eyes were squinty with anger. He was so angry that he could barely construct a cohesive sentence. “You will stop asking your aunt these – these ridiculous questions –”

The Master sighed, and wondered if he still possessed his old knack for hypnotism. Vernon should be weak-minded enough to it to take effect.

 “–and – and go to your room – I mean, cupboard–”

“I think not,” the Master drawled, making eye contact, and stepping forward. “For I am the Master, and _you will obey me._ ”

Vernon’s spluttered words came to a stop; he went still.

“I will obey,” he said, in a monotone.

There was a squawk from Petunia.

“Wow,” said Dudley, staring.

“What have you done to him?” Petunia screeched.

The Master shrugged.

“Just rudimentary mind-control, he’ll be fine,” the Master said, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean, unless I tell him to jump off a bridge or something, but why would I do _that_ , after almost a decade in your loving care?” His smile showed all his teeth, as he put a hand to his chin and struck a thoughtful pose. “Oh, _wait_ –”

“Please!” Petunia pleaded. “Don’t hurt my husband! Don’t hurt my son! I’ll tell you everything you want, just don’t hurt my family!”

Now that was what he wanted to hear. The Master smiled again, pleasantly this time.

“Go on,” he said invitingly.

Petunia began to speak, and the story she told was a long and fantastic one, of witches and wizards, of a sister who was _different_ , and a magical madman bent on murdering his brethren. The Master listened to Petunia’s tale, and when it finally came to an end, he began to laugh.

“Oh, this is _fantastic!_ ” he howled, clutching his sides. This body was still a little too thin and frail from malnourishment for a proper maniacal laugh – he just didn’t have the lung capacity. “Oh!” he wheezed, still doubled over. “Just fabulous! It’s like Christmas!”

“W-what is?” Petunia asked, watching him with frightened eyes. The Master wiped away his tears of laughter, and straightened.

“All of it,” he explained condescendingly. “The fact that I’m some sort of wizarding _saviour_ , for one.” He started laughing again. “The irony is _priceless_.”

“What are you going to do?” Petunia ventured.

“Well, for one, I’m going to ask Vernon to give me all the money he has in this house,” said the Master. “Vernon, I want all the loose currency you have in this house.”

“Yes, Master,” Vernon droned, and left the room.

The Master took the opportunity to move closer to Petunia, and leaned into her space until they were almost eye-to-eye. Petunia sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe, but her eyes were defiant.

“The only reason I am going to let you live,” said the Master quietly, “is that you are the daughter of my human self.” He smiled at Petunia’s evident confusion. “You see, Petunia,” he began to explain, walking around the room as he slipped into lecturing tones, “the man you knew as your father wasn’t truly human. Oh, he thought he was, but he really wasn’t. Everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie, a false memory, designed to help him hide among the humans better. Because what better disguise is there, than one where you yourself don’t know that you’re disguised?”

The Master glanced at Petunia, who still looked uncomprehending. He sighed.

“Okay, let’s put it another way. Once upon a time there was a being of might and power, who wanted to hide from the other beings like him. There was a war, the last great Time War, and this being of power wanted to escape the war. So he decided to hide, until it was over. An ordinary disguise wouldn’t do, however; the other beings of power would hunt him down and find him. So instead, the being of power used a device that rewrote his memories and his DNA, storing his true self inside a magical fob-watch, to be opened when the war was over. In the mean time, he seemed to be an ordinary human being, with no idea of the truth. Things don’t always go as planned, however, and the being of power died in human form, before he could ever open the watch. So it sat there, waiting for someone with similar enough DNA, until one day the grandson of the being of power found it, and opened it.”

The Master looked at Petunia, whose face was a mask of horror.

“Do you understand, now?” he asked mockingly. He held his arms out in triumphant display. “Everything that being of power was, I became when I opened the watch. Harry Potter was overwritten, and only I, the Master, am left!”

“You’re still tiny, though,” said Dudley, whose expression was fascinated.

The Master deflated, and sent Dudley a glare.

“Dudley? Shut up before I rip out your spine through your throat,” he said sweetly. Dudley gulped, and shut up.

Vernon returned just then, and the Master pocketed the wallet Vernon handed him.

“So this is goodbye, dear Petunia,” he said, smirking. “Be grateful for my restraint. Sleep,” he told Vernon, who immediately dropped to the floor in a snoring heap.

He turned and headed for the front door. Outside night was falling, and the air was cool and fresh.

Smiling, the Master left the Dursley house behind, and stepped out into the wide world that was waiting for him.


	2. Diagon Alley

**Chapter Two**

_The boy was standing in front of him, small and underfed, and the idea that he could oppose the Master was laughable – and yet here he was, standing with defiance in his eyes._

_“I’m still here, you know,” the boy said quietly, and he didn’t flinch, even though he knew precisely who, and more importantly,_ what, _he was looking at. “You didn’t get rid of me. Just because there’s more of you than there is me doesn’t mean I just stopped existing. I was subsumed into the greater whole, but I’m still_ here _.” He tilted his head, looking up at the Master with bright green eyes. “It doesn’t have to be like this, you know. You could be great, if you wanted to be – not through conquering and destroying worlds, the way you always claim to want –” a flash of a smile, brief and knowing, “–but through saving them. You could be even better than the Doctor, if you tried –”_

“Shut up!” the Master snarled, startling awake. He flung his pillow at the nearest wall, glaring, and sat up.

He had left the Dursleys the day before, and found himself a room at the nearest motel. The proprietor had been worried about a small boy staying there alone (especially considering the fact that the Master was still wearing Dudley’s ragged cast-offs), but a brief hypnotic suggestion had smoothed things over, and the Master had rented a room.

Shaking off the memory of his dream – which the Master preferred not to ponder – the Master got out of bed, and distastefully eyed the clothing that he’d left lying on the floor the night before. He’d have to buy some new clothes at the first opportunity; he refused to walk around in the dirty rags that the Dursleys had considered appropriate for him.

Thinking of the Dursleys turned the Master’s thoughts in a new direction. He’d nearly laughed himself sick at the discovery of Harry Potter’s back-story, but it was incredibly convenient. Having the status of some kind of wizarding saviour would be an excellent platform from which to launch schemes of world domination, but the best part, as far as the Master was concerned, was that if Petunia’s story was accurate, there was the chance that he, the Master, was a wizard.

The Master knew from the fact that he still looked like a small child that the fob watch had only altered his DNA to change him into a Time Lord, rather than perfectly duplicating the DNA he had possessed prior to using the Chameleon Arch. Which meant that the process involved had probably only rewritten key sections of DNA, and left the rest alone. If this were true, then there was a chance that the strand of DNA that had made Harry Potter a wizard still existed within the Master’s own DNA – making the Master not only a Time Lord, but a _wizard_.

How to test his hypothesis, was the problem. The Master had never been trained in magic – or rather, the psycho-kinetic manipulation of matter and energy of which wizards were capable – and wasn’t sure how to use magic, if it turned out that he was capable of it. He needed to enter one of the locations where wizards gathered, and obtain a wand for himself – then he would be able to find out whether or not his hypothesis was correct.

From memory, the wizards received an invitation to wizard school on their eleventh birthday. Harry Potter’s eleventh birthday was only a few days away: if the Master waited until then, no one would think it strange to find him wandering around the wizarding shopping district. The Master had briefly studied the wizards during his time as Harold Saxon (although not in much detail once he worked out how backwards and inefficient they were), and knew where and how to enter the different magical areas of Britain. He could buy a wand and all the other supplies he needed, head off to Hogwarts for a magical education for just long enough to give himself a crash course in how using magic worked – he _was_ a genius, after all, so it shouldn’t take too long – and then he could move on with his more lofty goals. Namely, world domination.

The Master had considered the destructive course he’d taken the last time he’d tried to take over the world, and decided to take a different path this time. Without the drums beating out bloodshed and pandemonium inside his mind, he was more interested in setting up a viable dictatorship than in destroying the Earth and the planets beyond. Besides, if the Doctor showed up – which he inevitably _would,_ the Master thought, with emotions that were too irritated to be fondness – it would be pleasant to leave the other Time Lord confused and suspicious at his change in tactics.

With a look of disdain, the Master changed back into Dudley’s old cast-offs, and strode out to the reception desk to pay his bill. That done, the Master headed into London, with plans to buy himself some new clothes, and find somewhere to stay.

* * *

A few hours later and the Master was tired, but satisfied. His young, malnourished body wasn’t used to all the walking and shopping he had been doing, and he was now considerably weary, but it was worth it. He’d rid himself of Dudley’s old clothes the first chance he’d got, and was now wearing black trousers, a black t-shirt, and a pair of cheap black loafers. He would have preferred something a little more elegant, of course, but the money Vernon had given him was already running out, so indulging his more expensive tastes would have to wait.

Unfortunately, it was 1991, so buying a computer was both more expensive and more useless than it would have been if the Master had ended up later in history, which meant that there was no point. The Master could have done something useful with even a laptop from 2007, but in 1991? The computers were bigger and slower, the internet was yet it hit its boom, and technology wasn’t all interlinked the way it would be later. The Master missed the days when everything was accessible with a little computer hacking, honestly: it was so much easier to orchestrate dastardly plans when everything from bank accounts to nuclear missiles were online. Instead, the Master was going to have to do things the slow way.

Still, there was one upside to the situation: as far as the Master knew, the Doctor hadn’t been around much, in this decade. With luck, the Master would have time to establish himself as the wizarding world’s rightful overlord before the Doctor came stumbling in and demanded he stop.

* * *

Harry Potter’s Hogwarts letter arrived two days later. The Master opened his window with a whoop, considerably startling the owl that was sitting outside on the window sill. It held out its leg agreeably enough, however, and stood still as the Master untied the attached letter.

“I need to you wait for a reply,” he told the owl, which ruffled its feathers irritably, but stayed on the windowsill.

The Master paged through the letter and the list of school supplies, grinning widely. Pulling out the correspondence kit he’d bought for specifically this purpose, he sat down and dashed off a brief letter accepting his place at Hogwarts.

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_ he wrote, _I am delighted to accept my place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I will be there on 1 st September, as required. Yours, Harry Potter._

The Master sealed the letter inside an envelope, and tied it to the owl’s leg. It looked at him expectantly.

“Do I look like I have food for you?” he asked. “Go on, shoo, deliver my letter.”

The owl glared at him, but obediently took flight. Grinning, the Master grabbed his wallet (Well, Vernon’s wallet, to be accurate) and the messenger bag he’d bought two days earlier, and left his hotel, prepared to enter the wizarding world.

The entrance to the wizarding world was a shabby old pub by name of the Leaky Cauldron, in a small side-street with barely any traffic. The Master ducked inside, where it was just as grubby as it looked from the outside. At the bar, the barman was wiping some glasses with a tea towel, although to his credit, both the glasses and the tea towel appeared reasonably clean. The Master approached him.

“Excuse me,” he greeted the man politely, “but I just got my Hogwarts letter, and I want to buy some supplies, but I’m not sure where to go.”

The man peered down at him with a kind smile.

“The entry to Diagon Alley’s out the back,” he told the Master. “Come along, and I’ll show you the way.”

Harry followed him out the back of the pub, into a small, walled courtyard. The barman tapped the brick wall in front of him to a particular pattern – the Master stored it to memory – and the bricks quivered, then wriggled aside until they formed a doorway large enough for a grown man.

“There you go,” said the barman.

“Thanks,” the Master said dryly, and turned to walk through into the wizarding shopping district.

To the eyes of a genuine eleven-year-old, twentieth-century human boy, no doubt Diagon Alley would have been very exciting, but the Master had visited thousands of different planets, and seen far stranger sights. He walked on, completely imperturbable, until he reached a large, snow-white building carved from stone. He started up the steps.

There was a strange being standing on guard outside the doors, and although the Master had never seen one before, he knew from its appearance that it was a goblin. He walked past the goblin with a brief nod, and approached the inner doors of the bank. There were words engraved on them, and the Master too a closer look as he went by.

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_   
_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_   
_For those who take, but do not earn,_   
_Must pay most dearly in their turn,_   
_So if you seek beneath our floors_   
_A treasure that was never yours,_   
_Thief, you have been warned, beware_   
_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Just as well I’m not planning on stealing anything,” the Master muttered. He couldn’t help but approve of the goblins’ attitude: the Master held a similar one towards anyone fool enough to try stealing from _him._ Walking across the great marble hall, the Master approached one of the counters.

“Good morning,” said the Master to the goblin manning the counter. “My name is Harry Potter. I believe that I have a vault with Gringotts, but no one has ever given me the key.”

The goblin frowned.

“That is most irregular,” it said. “Allow me to consult our records. One moment.” The goblin disappeared through a door.

The Master waited with barely-veiled impatience until the goblin returned.

“Our records show that Mr Albus Dumbledore is currently in possession of your vault key,” said the goblin dourly. “Do you wish for a new one to be made?”

“I do,” said the Master.

“A blood test will be required to prove your identity,” said the goblin, and the Master’s pleased smirk vanished.

“A blood test? To test what?”

“Your identity, sir,” the goblin repeated slowly, as though the Master were a particularly slow child. The Master gritted his teeth, but didn’t lose his pleasant demeanour.

“Yes, but _how?_ Does it test DNA, or blood type, or –”

“The spell detects your identity in magic,” the goblin interrupted rudely.

“Ah, so it tests my _magical_ identity,” said the Master. “Excellent. I’ll go ahead with the blood test.”

The goblin placed a piece of parchment and a dark red quill on the top of the counter.

“Please write your full name across the parchment,” said the goblin. “The quill will draw as much blood is necessary.”

Scowling at the goblin’s description of the process, the Master picked up the quill and began to write _Harry James Potter_ across the parchment. The back of his hand split open, but the Master ignored the pain, his eyes narrowing to dark slits as he finished writing out his human name.

For a moment, nothing happened: then the crimson words swirled where they sat on the paper, and re-formed.

_Identity confirmed,_ said the parchment. The goblin examined it.

“All seems to be in order, sir,” it said. “You will have your vault key in a few minutes.” It disappeared again, taking the parchment with it.

The Master pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the back of his hand with it.

When the goblin reappeared, it held out a small golden key, which the Master accepted.

“I assume that you wish to visit your vault?” it asked, and the Master nodded. “Very well, I will have Griphook take you down to the vaults. Griphook!”

Another goblin appeared, and looked inquiringly at the first one.

“Mr Potter wishes to visit his vault,” said the goblin behind the counter. Griphook nodded.

“Follow me,” he, she, or it said, and headed towards a door off to one side. The Master found himself standing in a narrow tunnel lit with flaming torches, with railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled, and a small cart hurtled up the rails, coming to a stop just in front of the two magical beings.

The Master was tempted to say something snide, but held his tongue and climbed into the cart without a word.

What followed felt like a hair-raising rollercoaster ride. The Master found himself laughing crazily as the wind whipped past his face, the cart careening through sudden twists and turns until finally, it pulled up in front of one of the vaults.

The Master climbed out of the car and used his key to unlock the vault door. Inside, the vault was filled with mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins. Grinning, the Master began filling the bag he’d brought with him.

The trip back was just as exciting as the trip to the vault had been, and the Master thoroughly enjoyed it. He left the bank smiling widely, and consulted the supplies list that had come with his letter. He decided to buy his school robes next.

When he arrived at the robe shop there was another student already there, an ethereal young blonde girl who reminded him vaguely of Lucy. The Master experienced a moment of mild fondness towards his wife at the reminder, despite the fact that she had betrayed him by trying to foil his resurrection attempt. He wondered if she’d been killed, when the prison was destroyed. Probably. Ah, well. He didn’t really care all that much, although he was willing to admit that it was a pity. He’d _liked_ Lucy, even if she hadn’t been all that bright. Having her around had given him a good idea of why the Doctor always had his little hangers-on – although the Doctor had probably never experienced the inconvenience of any of them turning on him, damn him.

“Are you for Hogwarts too, dear?” asked the witch fitting the blonde girl for robes. “Just stand on the stool, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

The woman pulled the robe up over the girl’s head and bustled away with it to the back of the store, leaving the Master and the blonde girl alone.

“Are you going to Hogwarts too, then?” the girl asked in an airy voice.

“I am,” said the Master shortly. He had no desire to make conversation with some pre-pubescent human, not even one who was a witch.

“I’m looking forward to it, aren’t you?” the girl continued, oblivious to the Master’s lack of interest. “I wasn’t supposed to start until next year, but Professor Dumbledore said that I could start early because my magic keeps going wrong.”

“Going wrong?” The Master was curious in spite of himself.

“Oh. yes,” the girl remarked. “Accidental magic isn’t supposed to be dangerous, but I’ve been having bad episodes ever since my mother died. One of her experiments went wrong, you see. I was there. I miss her very much,” the girl added, sounding wistful.

The Master blinked.

“The failed experiment – were you caught in the backlash?” He wondered what exactly had happened, and how it had affected the girl’s magic.

The girl nodded.

“How terrible,” said the Master insincerely.

“It was, but at least I get to go to Hogwarts early,” the girl said serenely, and reminded him more of Lucy more than ever. The Master felt a pang, and quashed it ruthlessly.

“I’m Luna Lovegood,” the girl said, when the Master didn’t respond to her last comment.

“Harry Potter,” the Master replied reluctantly.

“Goodness, are you really?” Luna asked, looking interested.

“No, I actually stole his identity to further my schemes for world domination,” the Master said sarcastically.

To his surprise, Luna only nodded solemnly.

“I see. Don’t worry, I shan’t tell.”

“ _Oh, for_ – of _course_ I’m Harry Potter!” the Master exploded, exasperated. “I was _joking!_ ”

“Are you sure?” Luna asked seriously. “Because you look like someone who might want to take over the world, you know.”

The Master stared at her, nonplussed by her answer. Fortunately, just then the proprietoress returned from the back of the store with an armful of robes.

“Here you go, young lady, I’ll just have these wrapped up for you,” she said, handing the robes to a tall, sullen-looking girl leaning against the shop counter. “Felicia will sort out everything out.”

“Thank you,” said Luna politely, and hopped down off her stool. “Goodbye, Harry Potter. I’ll see you at Hogwarts.”

The witch standing in front of the Master did a double-take.

“ _Harry Potter?”_ she gasped, her eyes flying to the scar on his forehead. “Well, I never! It’s an honour to meet you, so it is!”

The Master gave her his best smile, inwardly amused at how flustered the woman had become.

“Thank you, but I’d like to buy some robes, if it’s not too much trouble?” he asked, a mocking lilt to his voice. The witch didn’t notice.

“Yes, yes, of course – first year, I presume?” the woman asked distractedly. “You’ll be wanting the full set, then.”

The Master stood still as he was fitted for his robes, then another ten minutes as the witch disappeared to the back of the store. When she finally returned with his robes, she wrapped them up in brown paper and string herself.

“That will be seven galleons, Mr Potter,” she said, beaming at him. The teenage assistant gaped at him with wide eyes. The Master paid for his purchases and quickly left the store. While he liked being adored, he preferred adoration of the silent and obedient type, not sycophantic gushing.

The next store that the Master visited was the cauldron store – tiny cauldrons! – followed by the book store. In addition to his textbooks, the Master picked up a book about the last war with Voldemort. There was an entire chapter devoted to Harry Potter’s defeat of the Dark Lord, and the Master was curious enough to want a more detailed account of what had supposedly happened. A sympathetic staff member cast a feather-light charm on all his books for him, so that carrying them took barely any effort.

By the time that he reached the wand store, Ollivander’s, the Master was laden down with several bulky packages.

Inside the tiny store stood a spindly chair, and the Master promptly dumped all of his new belongings on it.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice.

The Master perfectly controlled his impulse to jump and curse, instead merely turning to face the old wizard standing behind him.

“Was it really necessary to sneak up on me?” he asked, with a fake smile. The old man simply blinked at him, his eyes going to the scar on the Master’s forehead. The Master resisted the urge to scowl at the way all these wizarding morons seemed to feel that it was necessary to gape at his scar every chance that got. It was a _scar_ , it wasn’t like it was about to do tricks, or something.

“Ah, yes,” said the old man, his gaze drifting downwards so that he could meet the Master’s eyes. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charms work.”

The man moved a bit closer, still staring at the Master without blinking. The Master resisted the impulse to kick him in the shins.

“Your father, on the other hand,” the man continued, “favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more powerful and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” the Master echoed sarcastically, nodding.

“And that’s where…” The old man began to reach for the Master’s scar.

“Can we get on with it?” the Master snapped, stepping back and glaring.

“Yes, of course,” said the old man absently, lowering his arm. “Yes, you’ll be wanting your own wand. Well, now – Mr Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure out of his pocket. “Which  is your wand arm?”

The Master was ambidextrous, with a slight preference for his right hand.

“Right,” he said. The old man began to measure different parts of his body, all the while blathering on about wands. The Master somehow resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead waiting impatiently.

“Right then, Mr Potter.” The old wizard offered the Master a wand. “Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

The Master waved the wand around a bit, but the old man snatched it back almost at once, offering a different wand instead. Again, there was no effect.

The Master went through several wands this way, and frowned. Perhaps his hypothesis was incorrect, and he wasn’t a wizard after all. But the old wizard didn’t seem at all fazed – indeed, his enthusiasm only seemed to grow the more wands that the Master rejected.

“Tricky customer, eh?” he asked, sounding downright jovial. “Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

The Master gave the wand a bored wave. It shot out a few feeble sparks, which was more than any other wand had done, but the wand-maker frowned, and took that wand back, as well.

“Hmm… if not that one – then – yes, perhaps…” He went rummaging through the boxes at the back of the store, and came back with yet another wand.

The moment that the Master touched it, a shiver of _presence_ rang through him, the wood warming beneath his fingers. At the same moment a stream of green and silver sparks shot out of the end like a small firework. The Master smiled, enchanted by the thrill of power he felt, feeling almost giddy with it.

“Well, well, well,” mused the old wizard, next to him. “how curious… how very curious…”

“What, precisely, is so curious?” the Master asked, annoyed by the old man’s theatrics. Pale eyes fixed on him.

“Yew and phoenix feather is a peculiar combination, Mr Potter. For yew symbolises death and immortality, while the phoenix is the opposite, a creature of life and rebirth. Then there is the fact that the last time I sold a wand of that particular combination… why, that wand gave you this scar,” said the wand-maker, tracing the scar on the Master’s forehead.

The Master jerked back from the unwanted touch, scowling.

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and considered the man's words. “So I have a wand in common with Voldemort. _Wonderful._ ”

“Yes. Curious how these things happen,” said the old man,  unperturbed by the Master’s outburst. “The wand chooses the wizard, remember. I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”

Well, at least the old wand-maker was capable of deducing something of the Master’s potential, at the least - even if he had no idea how far it extended.

“That will be eight galleons,” the man added.

“Fine,” the Master muttered, handing over the coins. As soon as he did, the old wizard disappeared into the back rooms again.

The Master stared down at his wand. Death and immortality… life and rebirth… yes, all of those things were the province of a Time Lord, and him more so than any other.

His expression fixed in a dark smile of satisfaction, the Master began to laugh, low and cold, his eyes never leaving the wand in his hands.

Oh, yes. Things were about to become _interesting._


	3. The Hogwarts Express

**Chapter Three**

The Hogwarts Express was a large, scarlet steam-train. The Master stared at it, and reflected yet again on how backwards the magical world was, even by twentieth-century human standards.

Around him children were running and yelling, or saying goodbye to their parents. There were plenty of tearful hugs taking place, leaving the Master feeling vaguely nauseated by all the excessive sentiment. Dragging his trunk behind him, the Master boarded the train and focused on finding a compartment empty of any wizarding brats.

There was one down the far end of the train, and the Master settled down in the corner. He was already bored, and the prospect of spending the next several hours travelling by train didn’t appeal to him in the least. Unfortunately, the Hogwarts Express was the only allowed method of travel to and from Hogwarts, where the students were concerned.

It was just as well that the Master had a number of books packed in his trunk.

The door to the train compartment opened, and a gangly red-headed boy stood in the doorway.

“Anyone sitting there?” he asked, pointing to the seat opposite the Master. “Everywhere else is full.”

The Master gave a sharp jerk of one shoulder to indicate that he didn’t care. The red-headed boy sat down.

There was silence as the Master stared out the window, and the red-headed boy fidgeted awkwardly.

“I’m Ron,” the boy said suddenly. “Ron Weasley.”

Why, thought the Master, did everyone insist on having _conversations_ with him?

“Harry Potter,” he responded irritably.

Weasley’s eyes went huge, and flew to the Master’s forehead, where his scar was hidden by his hair.

“Really?” he blurted. “And have you really got – you know…” He pointed at the Master’s forehead.

The Master stared at him blankly. Was everyone in the wizarding world going to be this rude?

“The _scar_ ,” said Weasley, after an expectant silence.

“Yes,” the Master replied shortly.

“Wow,” Weasley breathed. “So that’s where You-Know-Who…” he trailed off, only to ask another question. “Do you remember any of it?” he asked eagerly, and the Master had had enough.

“Get out,” he said coldly.

“What?”

“Get _out._ ” The Master stood, menace radiating off him. He pointed at the compartment door. “Before I hex you.”

Looking offended and a little scared, the Weasley boy gather his things, grumbling under his breath, and left the compartment.

The Master sat back down. The _nerve_. Oh, the Master had no love for James and Lily Potter, his parents or not, but any berk who was idiot enough to start asking him about the night his parents were _brutally murdered in front of him_ deserved what he got. The Master made a mental note to read up on some appropriate hexes to use the next time someone started asking him similarly impertinent questions.

The compartment door slid open again, and the Master looked up.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” the Lovegood girl greeted him.

“For Gallifrey’s sake, just call me Harry,” the Master complained. “You don’t need to keep adding on the ‘Potter.’”

The girl beamed, and joined him in the compartment, and the Master realised that she’d taken his words as some kind of welcome.

Well, the Master thought grudgingly, at least she was likely to be better company than the Weasley boy.

“How are your plans for world domination progressing?” Luna asked, taking a seat.

The Master shot her a sharp look, suspecting her of mockery, but Luna’s expression was open and curious. So he replied honestly, telling himself that no one would listen to an eleven year old girl if she ever tried to pass any of this information on.

“They’re still in the early stages,” he said dismissively. “I need to find out more about the capabilities of wizards before I plan any further.”

“And what will you do, if you conquer the world?” Luna inquired.

The Master considered the question.

“I’ll try to be a reasonably good ruler, instead of one of those morons everyone wants to overthrow,” said the Master, ignoring the fact that he had been one of those ‘morons’ on more than one occasion. Now that the madness from the drums was gone, he found that he no longer craved unnecessary violence and destruction. “Someone the people _want_ to have ruling them.” He smiled gleefully. “Ooh, I can just picture the Doctor’s face!”

“Who’s the Doctor?” Luna looked interested.

“An annoying twit with the attention span of a five year old and a saviour complex,” the Master answered grumpily. “His pet project is trying to redeem me,” he added with some disgust.

“You don’t seem so bad,” Luna remarked vaguely.

“Oh, you have no idea, the Master purred, his eyes glittering.

“Actually, you seem rather nice,” Luna continued.

The Master slumped. This was the problem with being eleven years old – no one took you seriously!

“I’m not _nice_ ,” he hissed, glaring.

“Well, you haven’t called me names yet, or tried to push me out of the compartment,” said Luna reasonably, with ten-year-old logic, “so you’re nicer than everyone else I’ve met, so far.”

The Master crossed his arms.

“I’m waiting until later to unleash my villainy,” he said, in a voice that sounded sulky even to himself. He scowled. “Wait, why am I trying to convince you I’m evil?” he wondered aloud. “The fewer people who know what I really am, the better for my plans.”

He frowned at Luna. It was the resemblance to Lucy, probably. He was so used to telling her about almost everything, and Luna reminded him enough of his former wife that he felt the same impulse to tell her things.

“You remind me of my wife,” he said aloud.

Luna took this in stride.

“Oh, are you married? I know that in some cultures people can be married as young as nine.”

“Not anymore,” said the Master. “She’s dead.”

 _And it’s your fault,_ said the accusing voice of Harry Potter. _But you don’t even care, do you?_

The Master quashed the little inner voice. Of course he didn’t _care_.

Luna looked dismayed and saddened.

“Do you miss her?” she asked. “I miss my mother.”

The Master pondered the question.

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “She was useful to have around, Lucy, and I enjoyed her company, sometimes.”

It struck him quite suddenly that in this time Lucy would still be alive. 1991 – why, Lucy would be only a couple of years older than the Master was himself – thirteen years old. The Master felt stunned at this revelation. For a moment he toyed with the idea of tracking her down, befriending her, getting to know her all over again –

But no. Lucy was in his past, and it was best that she stayed that way. Gallifrey forbid he end up changing his own timeline. Besides, she’d betrayed him in the end, hadn’t she? He was better off without her.

“But it doesn’t matter,” said the Master brusquely. “She was just another stupid human ape, in the end.”

Luna patted his shoulder sympathetically. The Master stared at her blankly.

“Daddy says that no one we love ever truly leaves us,” Luna said, which was exactly the kind of trite nonsense that the Master would expect the Doctor to come out with. It irritated him.

“That’s stupid,” he said with a snort, throwing himself back against the seat in a sprawl. “She’s _dead_. And I don’t care about her anyway.”

Luna only gave him a look of pity, which annoyed the Master further, but she changed the subject.

“Do you have idea which house you’ll be in at Hogwarts?” she asked. “I expect that I’ll be in Ravenclaw. It’s the house of wit and learning, you know. Both my parents were Ravenclaws, and I inherited their love of books.”

The Master had looked briefly through _Hogwarts: A History_ in the book store, so he knew what Luna was talking about.

“Slytherin, probably,” he answered. “Cunning and ambition practically define me – apart from all the murder and violence, of course,” he added with a wink.

“Interesting,” said Luna. “You do know that a lot of people won’t like that, don’t you?”

“Why, because I’m their _saviour?_ ” the Master sneered. He grinned nastily. “They’ll learn to live with it.”

The door to the compartment opened, and the Master straightened, to see a smiling, dimpled woman standing there.

“Anything off the trolley, dears?” she asked.

“Ooh, sweets!” the Master declared, with a manic smile. “Yes!” He leapt up from his seat, and moved into the corridor to inspect the food trolley. There were dozens of items – mostly sweets – and the Master bought some of everything. He dumped them all onto the seat next to him, while Luna watched curiously.

“Ugh, pumpkin,” said the Master, after biting into a pasty and making a face. “Who likes _pumpkin?_ ”

“I do,” Luna offered.

“Here, then.” The Master pushed the small pile of pumpkin pasties towards her. “Have fun eating these.”

“Thank you,” Luna said, smiling, and picked up one of the pasties and began to eat it.

Fortunately, the chocolate frogs tasted far better than the pumpkin pasties, and the Master ate the lot. Silence fell in the compartment, as Luna pulled out a magazine and began to read. Decided that wasn’t a bad idea, the Master decided to read some of his books. He read lazily, at human speeds, so that the reading experience lasted longer.

After a while, feeling thoroughly bored, the Master leaned back, and decided to take a nap.

He woke to the sound of the compartment door sliding open, and opened one eye to see a blonde boy standing in the doorway, flanked by two much bigger boys. Hired muscle, the Master thought. Interesting.

He opened the other eye as well, and straightened up.

“Can I help you?” he drawled.

“Depends,” said the blonde boy, his eyes flicking over the Master’s robes appraisingly. “Are you Harry Potter?”

The Master leaned back in his seat and stared calculatingly back.

“What if I am?” he responded.

“The name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy,” said the blonde boy. “You’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” He held out his hand to shake the Master’s.

The Master shook it, smirking. Draco looked pleased.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” the Master cooed mockingly. “Tell me, Draco, I don’t suppose your family has access to a collection of dark tomes I could borrow, do they?”

Draco looked startled and suspicious.

“You see,” said the Master, lowering his voice conspirationally, “I have every intention of taking over this little _magical_ world, and I don’t care what I need to do to do it.”

Draco looked equally disturbed and fascinated.

“You want to become a dark lord?” he asked, taking a seat. His two thugs took a seat on either side of him. The Master tsked.

“Not at all,” he said archly. “What I want to be is the totally legitimate yet absolute ruler of the wizarding world. Everyone knows that anyone with the title of ‘dark lord’ is an interloper. I want everyone to think that the world is my rightful domain.” He smiled, with lots of teeth.

“Er…” Draco was looking at the Master as though he were insane. The Master only smiled even more brightly at him.

“Right,” said Draco. “Well… good to meet you, Potter. I’d better get back to my friends.” He left the compartment in a hurry, his two thugs following him.

The Master laughed.

“He thinks I’m mad,” he told Luna amusedly, leaning back against his seat.

“Well, you did sound a little strange,” she said placidly. “All you were missing was the evil laugh.”

“You mean like this?” the Master asked, and launched into maniacal laughter. Halfway through the compartment door opened yet again, to reveal a young witch with bushy brown hair. She took one look at the Master laughing maniacally and Luna smiling serenely, and shut the door again without saying a word.

The Master’s mad laughter died down, and he grinned at Luna.

“You don’t scare easily, do you?” he asked thoughtfully. Luna only shrugged. The Master grinned, and decided that the girl wasn’t so bad, for a human. Certainly more bearable than most of the apes he encountered. Closing his eyes, he resumed his nap.

* * *

They arrived at Hogwarts a few hours later. The students milled around the train in crowds, while a giant of a man shouted, “First years! First years! Over here!”

With a shrug, the Master walked over to join the other first year students, Luna following after him.

“Come on, over here! Any more first years? Mind your step, now! First years follow me!”

The first years were led down a steep and narrow path, which ended by the side of a great black lake. Behind it was a mountain, with a vast castle perched on top.

At the water’s edge was a fleet of small boats.

“Boats,” the Master said in disgust. “Why did it have to be _boats?_ ” Boats meant the risk of getting wet. Nonetheless, he climbed into an empty boat, even holding out a hand to help Luna into it.

“No more than four to a boat!” shouted the large man, as students crowded around the boats, trying to climb in without getting their shoes wet. The boats dipped and bobbed as the students filled them.

“Oh, not _you_ ,” the Master groaned, as the Weasley boy joined him and Luna in the boat. The girl with the bushy hair from earlier also climbed into the boat.

“Everyone in?” the large man shouted. “Right then – FORWARD!”

The little boats began to move forward of their own volition.

“What’s your problem?” Weasley huffed. “All I wanted to know was –”

“If I remembered the night my parents were brutally murdered before my eyes,” the Master drawled, eying him with dislike. “Yes, I know. Shut up.”

Weasley’s flush was visible even in the darkening light.

“But –” he started to protest, leaning forward, and on impulse the Master promptly shoved him. The boy went flailing backwards, and fell into the water with a loud splash.

“Oops,” said the Master insincerely, examining his nails. The bushy-haired girl gasped with outrage.

“You can’t do that!” she told the Master, and leaned over to where the Weasley boy was choking and coughing and barely remaining on the surface. Weasley grabbed onto the boat just before it moved out of reach, and the Master watched in smug amusement as the boy was dragged along in the boat’s wake.

The bushy-haired girl stood up and tried to help Weasley climb back into the boat. It tipped dangerously. The Master’s eyes widened in alarm.

“ _Stop_ _it_ , you little idiot, you’re unbalancing the boat –”

The boat overturned, dumping the lot of them in the lake. The Master spluttered as he was submerged in the icy water, before bobbing to the surface.

“Oh, just great, you stupid ape!” he shouted at the bushy-haired girl.

“It was your fault for pushing him in the first place!” she managed to yell back.

There was a sudden thrashing in the water as Luna surfaced momentarily, only to sink back beneath the water a moment later. It was clear from her movements that she had no idea how to swim. The Master sighed in irritation. As the only student he’d met so far who seemed remotely bearable, he didn’t actually want her to drown, however entertaining that might be. As Luna surfaced again, he grabbed her under the arms, pulling her onto her back.

“Stop thrashing around!” he snapped in her ear. “Relax and listen to me! Lean back, that’s right, but keep your mouth and nose about the water – _urgle!_ ” He broke off for a moment as a small wave from Luna’s splashing filled his mouth with water. He spat it out and tried again. “Spread your arms and legs out, and arch your back – that’s it–”

Following the Master’s annoyed instructions, Luna managed to manoeuvre her body until she was floating on her back on the surface of the water. The Master let go, and watched as Luna floated on her own.

“See?” he said. “Now just stay like that, and you’ll be fine.”

“You lot took a tumble, eh?” asked a deep, friendly voice, and the Master realised that while he’d been focused on keeping Luna alive, the other boats had stopped, and the one with the large man in it had drifted back to join them. “Alright, hold on a moment–” Reaching out, the large man grabbed the edge of the overturned boat, and tipped it back the right way up. It was now half-filled with water, but it was floating nonetheless. “There we go.”

“He pushed the other boy into the water!” the bushy-haired girl said at once, pointing at the Master. He sneered at her.

“Excuse me for not wanting to relive my parent’s deaths!”

“Harry s-saved me!” Luna gasped out, still floating on her back.

“She can’t swim,” the Master explained to the large man, who tutted.

“Well, that’s no good! We’d better get you all back in the boat. You with the black hair, can you pull your friend over to the boat?”

The Master rolled his eyes, but swam over to the boat, before reaching out to take Luna’s hand. He tugged her close to the boat, so that she was able to turn in the water and grab onto it.

“Right now, all of you climb back in – carefully, now, we don’t want the boat to tip over again–”

It took a few minutes, but finally the Master, Luna, Weasley and the bushy-haired girl were all sitting shivering in the boat.

“Forward!” said the large man, and the little flotilla of boats resumed their journey across the lake.

“Just for the record, that was all your fault,” the bushy-haired girl sniffed loftily.

“Oh, shut up,” the Master snarled, and lapsed into surly silence.


	4. Hogwarts

**Chapter Four**

Hogwarts Castle was a magnificent sight, but the Master was in no mood to appreciate it.  Cold, and dripping wet, with Luna huddled shivering into his side, he sat grumpily as the little boats pulled into a kind of underground harbour.

The large man knocked on the set of doors there once everyone had climbed out of their boat, and the doors swung open immediately, revealing a tall woman in emerald-green robes.

“The first years, Professor McGonagall,” said the large man.

“Thank you, Hagrid,” said the witch. I will take them from here.” She caught sight of the Master and Luna. “Goodness gracious, what happened to these two?”

“One of the boats overturned, professor,” Hagrid explained. The professor looked disapproving.

“Dear me,” she said. “Well. All of you follow me, please.”

“Excuse me, Professor McGonagall?” the Master spoke up, and was subjected to a piercing look. “Is there such a thing as a drying spell?”

“There is indeed,” said the professor. “Come here.”

The Master walked forward, tugging Luna along with him. The professor tapped him on the head and spoke an incantation, and the water evaporated off him in streams of steam. There was a choked giggle from Luna, who was staring at his hair. The Master patted it, and found to his annoyance that it was standing on end.

Weasley and the bushy-haired girl moved forward to be dried as well. The Master’s only consolation was that the bushy-haired girl’s hair turned truly frightening once it was dried by the spell, still tangled and snarled from being in the water. The Master thought he saw a bit of pond weed in it.

The students followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor, the Master vainly trying to get his hair to lie down in some semblance of order, while Luna stifled giggles next to him.

The professor showed them all into a small chamber, and gave a small speech about Hogwarts and the house system that the Master didn’t pay much attention to. She told them all to wait quietly, and left them alone in the chamber.

“Stop laughing at my hair,” the Master told Luna, who was still smiling. He tried to flatten his hair down again, but it only seemed to get messier the more he tried.

“Let me,” she told him, pulling out her wand. “My mother used to do my hair for me.” She waved her wand with great concentration and spoke an incantation, and the Master felt his hair _move_. He patted it suspiciously, but it was now sitting neatly, and felt silky-smooth to the touch.

“Thanks,” said the Master reluctantly.

There were several screams behind them, and the Master turned, to see that a number of ghosts had streamed through the back wall. He rolled his eyes at the reactions of some of the students.

He tuned out the conversations around him, and waited until Professor McGonagall returned.

“Now, form a line,” she said, “and follow me.”

The first year students did as she said, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall and through a pair of double doors into the great hall. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles which were floating in mid-air, over four long tables at which hundreds of students were sitting. Each table was laid with glittering plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another  table, where the teachers were sitting.

Hundreds of faces stared at the new students, but the Master only stared back, not in the least impressed.

He’d grown up on _Gallifrey_ , honestly. Hogwarts hardly measured up to their standards of old-fashioned grandeur.

Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointy hat, which was extremely frayed and dirty.

“Please tell me we don’t need to wear that monstrosity,” the Master muttered. It was probably diseased. A couple of the students around him giggled nervously, overhearing his comment.

The hat twitched, and the Master’s eyes snapped back to it. A rip near the brim opened like a mouth, and the hat – the hat began to _sing_.

“Oh, for – are we living in a Disney musical number?” the Master ranted furiously, as the hat’s song filled the hall. No one but Luna seemed to hear him. She only patted his arm comfortingly.

The fact that the Doctor would probably love this only made the Master’s mood even more sour.

The entire hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the tables, and then became quite still again.

“When I call your name,” said Professor McGonagall, “you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted. Abbott, Hannah!”

The Master’s mind worked furiously. All they had to do was put on a hat – was it possible that the hat was enchanted to _read minds?_ He strengthened his mental defences. If anyone thought that the hat was going to read _his_ mind, they were sorely mistaken.

About two-thirds of the way through the first years Professor McGonagall called out “Lovegood, Luna,” and Luna skipped forward to put on the hat and sit on the stool. There was a moment’s silence, then:

“RAVENCLAW!” the hat shouted, and beaming, Luna moved off to join the Ravenclaw table.

A little while later, “Potter, Harry!” was called, and the Master strode forward. The hall filled with whispers and murmurs at the sound of his name, students at the four tables craning forward to get a better look at him. Making a face of disgust, the Master tried on the filthy wizard’s hat. It immediately slipped down over his eyes.

_“What is this?”_ asked a small voice in the Master’s ear. “ _What enchantment defends your mind? I can’t sort you if I can’t see your mind, boy!_ ”

_Too bad,_ the Master thought clearly, allowing his words to manifest outside his mental shields where the hat could read them. _Because no one is allowed to go rifling through my mind. And it says so much about this society that that kind of violation is considered acceptable._

On Gallifrey, where everyone was telepathic, invading someone’s mind was considered a serious crime.

“ _Hmph.”_ The hat sounded disgruntled. “ _Well, in that case, we’re at a bit of an impasse. What do you expect me to do?”_

_Send me to Ravenclaw?_ The Master suggested flippantly. _I already have a friend there, and I’ve always been fond of learning._

He didn’t mention that his fondness for learning was as result of the maxim, ‘knowledge is power.’ If he wanted to end up in Ravenclaw with Luna, instead of Slytherin – and he could see the way the Slytherins were eying him from here – then he needed to downplay his ambition.

“ _I suppose that will do,”_ said the hat, still sounding peeved. “RAVENCLAW!”

Smirking, the Master took the hat off his head and put it down on the stool, before sauntering off to join Luna at the Ravenclaw table. There was loud applause as he did so, and the Master preened a bit.

“I thought you wanted to be in Slytherin?” Luna asked, as he sat next to her.

“I can take over the world from here just as easily,” the Master said quietly into her ear. “And the Slytherins seemed a little unfriendly.” He pretended to look shocked, exaggerating the expression for effect, and Luna giggled.

The Sorting finished soon after, and an old, tall man that the Master recognised as Albus Dumbledore stood, beaming, his arms spread wide, as though nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

“Welcome!” said the headmaster. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here there are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!” He sat back down as everyone applauded.

The Master stared incredulously.

“Is he mad?” he asked aloud. Luna smiled at him calmly.

“We’re all mad here,” she said.

“Oh, shut up,” said the Master, recognising the reference, and began to eat his dinner.

* * *

The next month or so passed by quietly. The Master got used to surreptitiously hexing people who asked him awkward questions about his scar, the night of Voldemort’s defeat, or Voldemort himself (“It’s only a _name!_ ” the Master sneered, when his refusal to say ‘You-Know-Who’ set the other students squawking with alarm), and adjusted to the boredom of being in classes. Really, he mused, tuning out yet another lesson, it reminded him of all those political meetings he’d been forced to attend while he was Prime Minister, except that this time he occasionally actually learned something.

By this point, the teachers all had the idea that the Master was some kind of magical prodigy, the way he could do a spell perfectly on the first try and understood all the theory without difficulty, but the truth was simple: one, he had the brain and knowledge of a Time Lord, and two, being both magical and telepathic meant that his connection to his wand was much stronger than usual, with the result that using magic came easily to him. As long as he memorised the wand movement and the incantation, the Master found that he could cast spells without any real difficulty. The higher-level the spell, the more effort required: but now that he was receiving adequate nourishment at every meal, the Master’s body was working overtime to fix the results of his time with the Dursleys, and issues such as stamina or strength were becoming a thing of the past.

So far the Master had memorised the spells up to half-way through fifth year. He was itching to delve into the more advanced spells, particularly so-called ‘dark’ magic, but was intelligent enough to know that he needed to understand magic at a more basic level before he began studying anything more difficult. Knowledge was like a tower made of building blocks – if you laid down enough blocks at the bottom, your tower would be steady, but if you didn’t lay a solid foundation then things would go wrong once you started working near the top.

And now he sounded like the Doctor with his asinine analogies, the Master mused.

He glanced at Luna, who was sitting next to him, enjoying the Halloween feast. It was unexpected and a little inexplicable, the way that Luna had apparently become his firm friend. Saving her from drowning their first night at Hogwarts had apparently cemented what friendly feelings she already felt towards him, and the Master now had a devoted companion in the young girl. It was baffling, but the Master found that he didn’t mind. It was nice not to always be alone, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

In some ways, despite the mind-numbing boredom, the Master even enjoyed being at Hogwarts. The wizarding world was filled with patent absurdity, but no one seemed to see it except for him. The Master wasn’t too sure about the robes he had to wear, though – if he’d wanted to wear robes for the rest of his life, he would have stayed on Gallifrey. Give him a decent suit any day.

Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, and the Master looked him over. The wizard was panting heavily, and a look of terror was affixed to his face.

There was something _off_ about Quirrell, the Master knew. The man’s presence set his skin crawling, which was an unusual reaction for the Master to have, to say the least. Then there was his unconvincing stutter. Quirrel made the Master suspicious.

“Troll–” the professor gasped out to Professor Dumbledore, “–in the dungeons – thought you ought to know.” He then sank to the floor in a dead faint. A rather contrived faint, the Master thought.

The hall burst into uproar as the students talked in excitement and alarm, but the Master’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Quirrell. Something was up. In the confusion, he cast a strong disillusionment charm on himself without anyone noticing, and then, after a moment’s reflection, on Luna as well.

It took several purple firecrackers bursting from the end of Professor Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.

“Prefects! Lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

As the students formed lines and filed out of the hall, the Master stayed where he was, sitting very still. The last of the students left the hall, and the teachers followed them out.

The only ones left in the hall were the Master and Luna, and an apparently insensate Professor Quirrell.

As the Master watched, Quirrell sat up, looking none the worse for wear.

“Fools,” said the professor, without the usual quaver in his voice. He stood, and started striding swiftly towards the doorway.

The Master grabbed Luna’s hand, and together, the two students followed the professor through the hallways. The Master had his wand out, ready to curse the man, depending on what Quirrell was up to.

There was suddenly a scream from nearby, shrill and terrified, and a loud crashing noise. The Master and Luna froze. Quirrell didn’t stop.

There was another scream, followed by an inhuman roar, and the Master swore under his breath.

“Stay here,” he told Luna and took off running. The screams were coming from the end of the nearest hallway, from an open doorway. The Master burst through it, and came to a sudden stop.

He was standing in a set of toilets, and there was a troll in front of him, facing away from him. Pressed back against the wall, cringing in fear, was the bushy-haired Granger girl.

“Oh, for Gallifrey’s sake!” the Master yelled, frustration and genuine anger welling up inside him. “This was _not_ what I wanted to be doing right now!”

He glared at the troll in fury, red dancing around the edges of his vision. He gripped his wand tightly, seductive power coiling around him, and raised his wand, readying as much power as he could.

“ _Reducto!_ ” the Master yelled. Red light hit the troll, blasting a hole in its flesh. The troll howled in bewilderment and pain, turning to face the Master. The Master grinned up at it, his eyes gleaming.

“ _Reducto_ ,” he intoned a second time, aiming right between its eyes. A second overpowered spell hit its target, and the troll lurched, and started to fall backwards.

“ _Accio_ Granger!” the Master yelled, and a screaming Granger came hurtling forward as though yanked by invisible ropes, right before the troll would have landed on top of her.

The Master realised his mistake too late as the girl collided with him at high speed, sending both of them tumbling over in a tangled heap. For a moment, there was silence.

“Y-you–” Granger stammered, as the Master disentangled himself from the young witch. She was going into shock, he thought, but that wasn’t his problem. What the hell had possessed him to save her life? Since when did he care about such things?

_Someone needed to_ , said the tiny voice of Harry Potter resolutely, with unexpected strength, and the Master resisted the urge to scream in fury as he realised what had happened. He almost wished there was a second troll around to kill.

“Yes, I saved your life,” the Master snapped, straightening his robes and tucking his wand away. “You’re welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to leave before anyone turns up and starts asking awkward ques…” The Master’s voice trailed off as he turned and realised that he was facing a stunned Professor McGonagall, Snape, and Quirrell.

“Oh, just _fantastic!_ ” the Master snapped, raising his eyes to the heavens.

Snape bent over the troll, examining the large hole blown in its skull. Professor McGonagall looked angry enough to kill someone just by staring at them hard enough.

“What is going on here?” she demanded.

“He s-saved my life,” Granger said shakily, from where she was still sitting on the floor, her eyes wide.

“The troll is dead,” said Snape, and the three teachers stared at the Master with varying expressions.

The Master tried giving them a bright smile.

“Don’t I get points for saving someone’s life?” he asked. Professor McGonagall’s nostrils flared, and the Master had the sudden feeling that he’d said exactly the wrong thing.


	5. Interlude (Albus Dumbledore)

**Chapter Five (Interlude: Albus Dumbledore)**

Albus Dumbledore walked down Privet Drive towards number four, deep in his thoughts. His purpose here was to question the Dursleys about Harry Potter, a task he had put off for far too long, if his suspicions were correct.

Harry Potter was an enigma. Despite being only a first year, his teachers reported that he cast every spell flawlessly, and appeared to have memorised the entire textbook for each of his classes. To their knowledge, he had not practiced any of the spells he cast: he merely performed them perfectly on the first try, an apparent magical prodigy.

Then there was the boy’s attitude. In class, he appeared bored by the material most of the time, under-stimulated by what, for most students, would be an enriching school environment. His questions and comments were always incisive and insightful – and yet, so often there was a mocking edge to them, as though his participation were only for his own private amusement. He had been caught once or twice hexing other students in the halls, and while this hadn’t happened for some time, Professor Flitwick had confided that he suspected that this was only because the boy had gotten better at not being caught. The night of the Sorting, Harry Potter had apparently been the cause of a mishap with one of the first-year boats, pushing another child into the lake. He showed no inclination to mix with the other students: his only friend was Luna Lovegood, who was considered peculiar by the other children because of her odd ways and view of the world.

Most troubling of all, however, was the incident of two nights ago, when a troll had entered the castle. Somehow, Harry Potter – a mere first year – had succeeded in killing a fully-grown mountain troll, saving the life of a classmate in the process. None of the teachers had witnessed the altercation with the troll: they had only overheard the boy telling Miss Granger that yes, he had saved her life and that he intended to leave before anyone could ask him any awkward questions. Only then had the boy registered the presence of the three professors standing behind him.

The incident raised many questions in Albus’ mind. Had Harry truly entered the situation with the intention of saving Miss Granger’s life? If so, how had he known that she was in danger? How had he managed to kill the troll, something which a fully-trained wizard would have found difficult? Where had he acquired the knowledge and the training to do so? Had he deliberately chose to kill the troll, rather than subdue it? If so, did he experience some satisfaction in killing?

Albus had watched Mr Potter from afar, and what he saw disturbed him. The boy was not another Tom Riddle – his affection for Miss Lovegood seemed genuine enough, and Tom would never have saved the life of another student without expecting to get something out of it – but he was sly and calculating, and there was something in the way he watched the other students – a careless kind of musing – that set Albus on edge. There was something _different_ about Harry, something different and dangerous, and Albus was determined to discover what it was.

Striding up to the front door, Albus knocked firmly. A moment later, it was opened by a thin blonde woman who looked nothing like Lily Potter had.

“ _You!_ ” she gasped, the moment she laid eyes on him. “You’re one of _them!_ ”

“Good morning, Mrs Dursley,” Albus responded politely, ignoring the less-than-courteous greeting. “May I come in?”

“We shan’t take him back!” Petunia insisted, her voice shrill. “I don’t know what he is, but I won’t have him in my house, not after what he did to Vernon! Not after what he threatened!” Her knuckled where white where they gripped the door.

“Perhaps you could explain,” Albus suggested, allowing no sign of his inner disquiet to show on his face. “Shall we pretend that you have invited me warmly into your house?”

Petunia hesitated, then gave in.

“Fine!” she snapped, standing aside from the door. “Better that than all the street see you!”

Albus followed her inside into the sitting room.

“Albus Dumbledore,” he introduced himself. “We have corresponded, of course.”

Petunia sank down onto the sofa as though her ability to stand had deserted her. Albus took a seat in one of the nearby armchairs, and regarded her closely.

“I have come, as I am sure that you have deduced,” he said, “to inquire about Mr Potter. His progress at Hogwarts has been – shall we say – somewhat unusual.”

Petunia’s fingers wound themselves into the folds of her skirt.

“It’s not the boy,” she said softly.

“I beg your pardon?” Albus inquired, carefully keeping his voice pleasant, and showing no sign of the alarm her words caused him.

“It’s not the boy,” Petunia repeated, louder this time. She raised her head to glare at him. There was something desperate and mournful in her eyes, but more than that, Albus realised, Petunia was _afraid_. Deeply so. “It took him over, whatever it was. It claimed that it was my father, once, but my father was a kind man. That thing… it was not my father.” She shuddered.

Quietly, without alerting to Petunia as to what he was doing, Albus slipped into Petunia’s mind to view whatever memory she was re-living.

_The boy was standing there smiling like the devil, while Vernon stood behind him with his eyes glazed, his right arm still hanging limply from whatever the boy had done to it. The boy’s eyes were ancient, and full of malice, and whatever had happened to him, this wasn’t the boy that Petunia had unwilling raised. Not Lily’s boy, quiet and unassuming. Whatever looked out of the boy’s eyes wasn’t human, Petunia was sure of it._

_“What are you going to do?” Petunia ventured. She only hoped that the creature would leave once it had what it wanted._

_“Well, for one, I’m going to ask Vernon to give me all the money he has in this house,” said the creature possessing the boy. “Vernon, I want all the loose currency you have in this house.”_

_“Yes, Master,” Vernon droned, and left the room._

_The creature took the opportunity to move closer to Petunia, and leaned into her space until they were almost eye-to-eye. Petunia sat frozen, hardly daring to breathe, but stared back defiantly. She wondered if the creature intended to kill her._

_“The only reason I am going to let you live,” said the thing quietly, “is that you are the daughter of my human self.” It smiled at Petunia’s evident confusion. “You see, Petunia,” it began to explain, slipping into a lecturing tone, “the man you knew as your father wasn’t truly human. Oh, he thought he was, but he really wasn’t. Everything he thought he knew about himself was a lie, a false memory, designed to help him hide among the humans better. Because what better disguise is there, than one where you yourself don’t know that you’re disguised?”_

_Petunia didn’t understand, and from the creature’s frustrated glance, her incomprehension showed on her face. The creature sighed in irritation._

_“Okay, let’s put it another way. Once upon a time there was a being of might and power, who wanted to hide from the other beings like him. There was a war, the last great Time War, and this being of power wanted to escape the war. So he decided to hide, until it was over. An ordinary disguise wouldn’t do, however; the other beings of power would hunt him down and find him. So instead, the being of power used a device that rewrote his memories and his DNA, storing his true self inside a magical fob-watch, to be opened when the war was over. In the mean time, he seemed to be an ordinary human being, with no idea of the truth. Things don’t always go as planned, however, and the being of power died in human form, before he could ever open the watch. So it sat there, waiting for someone with similar enough DNA, until one day the grandson of the being of power found it, and opened it.”_

_Petunia listened with slowly-dawning horror. This thing… whatever it was… had been her father? Her father had been some sort of magical_ thing? _And now the boy was gone, replaced with this monster?_

_“Do you understand, now?” the creature asked mockingly. It held its arms out in triumphant display. “Everything that being of power was, I became when I opened the watch. Harry Potter was overwritten, and only I, the Master, am left!”_

“It wasn’t human,” said Petunia, oblivious to Albus skimming through her memories. “It looked like the boy, but it wasn’t him. He was a good boy,” she said, the words coming grudgingly, “for all he was one of your _freaks._ He never would have done what that _thing_ did.”

Albus could see in Petunia’s mind the lingering horror she still felt, and the doubts that the boy who was not Harry Potter had planted in her mind: despite her denials, she believed what the being had said about it once being her father, and struggled to reconcile the man she had known with the being that had spoken through Harry Potter. For all that she had not been fond of her nephew, there was also a measure of grief for his presumed death.

“Do you have any idea where this creature might have come from?” Albus asked carefully, slipping out of Petunia’s mind. The words that Harry Potter – or rather, the being that wore Harry’s body like a cloak – had spoken were deeply disturbing. The wizarding world had legends of creatures of power like the one that Harry had described, and the idea of one of those legends coming to life was a frightening one.

Petunia’s face contorted at the question.

“It said it came from the watch,” she almost hissed. “My father’s watch.”

“May I see it?”

Wordlessly, Petunia left the room, returning a few moments later with something wrapped in a handkerchief, as though she didn’t dare touch it with her bare hands. Albus delicately unwrapped the handkerchief, and found himself holding a fob-watch.

The watch case was covered with strange circular designs that he had never seen before. Albus took a chance, and touched the watch with his bare skin. There was a flash of _something_ – not a memory, it was too vague and fleeting to be a memory – of an ancient and malevolent intelligence, before the moment passed, and Albus was back in the sitting room holding a fob-watch. Whatever had resided within the watch had been powerful enough to leave traces for Albus to sense, and that was a bad sign. Carefully, Albus wrapped the watch up, and slipped it into his pocket.

“I think it would be best if I take the watch with me,” he said. “There is enough power lingering about it that there might be unfortunate consequences, if someone else should happen upon it.”

Petunia’s eyes were fixed on his face.

“You felt something,” she said, almost accusingly.

“I did,” said Albus, with a feeling of deep foreboding. “I did indeed.”

What in Merlin's name had been unleashed?


End file.
